The Cornish Guest House (3 page)

She would have ushered them to the door, using Oscar’s bedtime as an excuse, but Luke had other ideas.

‘You must join us for a glass of champagne!’ he announced, seizing two glasses from the cupboard before Liz had time to object. ‘Rosie can have a taste too, can’t she?’

Without waiting for a reply, he poured an inch into a flute before passing it to the girl. Then he filled a bigger glass for her mother and topped Tabitha up.

‘So,’ he went on, pulling out some stools and indicating to the visitors to sit down, ‘tell us about yourselves. What’s it like, living here? We can’t wait to get to know everybody.’

Realising that there was no escape, Tabitha warmed some milk for her son in the microwave, then he sat contentedly on her lap while Luke prodded Liz and Rosie for information. It seemed that the pair had left London for Tremarnock about ten years ago, used to live in Dove Cottage on Humble Hill, and had recently moved just up the road to a house called Bag End.

‘Robert and I only got married in July,’ Liz explained, peeping through long black eyelashes at Tabitha, who glanced away quickly.

‘Newly-weds. Congratulations!’ boomed Luke. At times like this, when he was happy and excited, his voice got louder, but Liz and Rosie didn’t seem to mind. Rosie, especially, appeared enchanted, gazing around the room every now and again to take in the carefully designed interior, a combination of old and new with its low ceilings and original oak beams, white walls and ultra-modern fixtures and fittings.

She was clearly taken with Oscar, too, playing peekaboo with him when he eyed her inquisitively between slurps of milk from his blue plastic beaker. At one point he reached out and tried to grab the silver bangles on her right arm, and for the first time Tabitha noticed that there was something wrong with the left one. It was thinner than the other, and pulled up to her chest at an unnatural, flexed angle. She lingered on it for just a moment too long then, realising that Liz had noticed, turned away, embarrassed, and touched Luke’s hand.

‘Shall we have some crisps?’

‘Of course.’ He sprang up. ‘Sorry, should have thought of it.’

While he opened various packets and poured the contents into little bowls, Tabitha kept the conversation flowing.

‘Do you work at the restaurant, too?’ she asked Liz, who revealed that she helped out when needed but that mostly she was busy with her hair-accessories business.

‘How interesting!’ Tabitha had noticed the unusual silver hairpins, decorated with tiny pearl-inlaid rhinestones on either side of her visitor’s head. ‘Did you make those?’

They were interrupted by a shriek from Oscar. Rosie took off one of her bangles, handed it to him and he shoved it in his mouth. ‘It’s OK,’ said his mother. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll do any harm.’

Rosie wanted to know where the family had lived before, and Tabitha explained that they came from Manchester. ‘It was very different. We had a modern town house, right in the city centre.’

Her voice trailed off and she cleared her throat again, afraid that she might give herself away.

‘It had no character, none whatsoever,’ Luke said quickly. ‘Crime was rife and the traffic…’ He pulled a face. ‘Well, let’s just say we were desperate to find somewhere with a bit of character and get as far away from the smoke as possible. Tabby was a Scouser originally, but I’m Manchester through and through.’ He laughed. ‘You can probably tell from our accents we’re not from around here.’

Liz smiled. ‘You’ll soon get used to the Cornish voices.’ She looked at his wife, whose mouth was twisting in an odd way. ‘Everything’s bound to feel a bit strange at first. I didn’t know a soul when I arrived but everyone’s so friendly you’ll quickly settle in.’

Liz’s voice was gentle and she had a kind, honest countenance. Tabitha reckoned that she was just a few years older than herself, in her early to mid-thirties, perhaps. They might even be friends, in other circumstances…

‘You must pop in for coffee sometime, when you’ve unpacked,’ Liz suggested.

Tabitha fiddled with the expensive diamond ring on her third finger, a gift from Luke, twisting it round and round.

‘I’m going to be so busy looking after Oscar and getting everything ready for our first guests, I won’t have time to socialise.’

Liz’s eyes widened. She was stung, you could tell.

‘Of course not.’ She rose from her stool and pushed it back to its original position. ‘You must have masses to do.’

She patted Rosie’s shoulder and the girl rose obediently, too, trying to extract the bangle from Oscar’s mouth as she did so. He was having none of it, though, and let out a shriek. ‘It doesn’t matter, he can keep it.’

‘We must be off. Thanks for the champagne.’ There was still a little left in Liz’s glass. ‘Nice to meet you – and good luck with the guest house.’

‘
Boutique
guest house,’ Tabitha corrected, immediately wishing that she could take the words back. It wasn’t the woman’s fault that she’d come at a bad time. Not that there’d ever be a good one.

Luke shot her a look and she wiped the palms of her sweaty hands, one by one, against her trousers.

‘So good of you to call.’ He grinned, ushering the visitors towards the door. ‘Oscar seems to have taken quite a shine to you, Rosie. We’ll give you back your bracelet next time we meet.’

*

‘Oscar’s so cute, isn’t he?’ said Rosie, once they were well out of earshot. She’d linked arms with her mother and was huddling into her side. This was partly from affection but also to help fend off the squally wind that had developed, whipping up their sleeves and down the collars of their coats.

‘He is,’ said Liz. ‘Really sweet.’

‘And Luke’s nice. Very friendly.’

There was a pause where Liz knew exactly what Rosie was thinking. The truth was, she was thinking it, too, but she didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation about Tabitha; it would be wrong to pass judgement. Give the woman a chance, she was telling herself. She’d only just arrived.

‘I don’t like Tabitha, do you?’

Liz flinched. Rosie never was one to mince words. ‘Oh, she seemed all right. They’ve had a very busy day. She’s probably exhausted and the last thing she wanted was visitors. Next time we see her I expect she’ll be quite different.’

Rosie wasn’t satisfied, Liz could tell. She would have insisted on pursuing the subject had not Jean emerged from her yellowish brick house, Dynnargh, which was situated on the corner of Fore Street and Humble Hill.

The house, built in the 1970s, was quite unlike its neighbours – mostly old fishermen’s cottages painted yellow, pink, blue and white. Dynnargh wasn’t as charming but it was lovingly tended, with white lace curtains in the windows and a neat little garden surrounded by a picket fence.

In the middle of the garden was a miniature stone wishing well and beside it a metal statuette of a comical boy on a bike in blue dungarees, carrying a flowerpot to be filled with blooms in spring and summer. They were new additions and Jean was very proud of them. She stopped for a moment to admire them, before spotting Liz and Rosie.

‘Evening, Liz, hello, chicken!’ She closed the gate behind her and gave Rosie’s cheek a pinch. She always called her ‘chicken’ even now she was twelve and a half years old. The girl smiled sheepishly.

Jean, a round, smiley woman in her mid-fifties, was a childminder who’d helped to look after Rosie for many years while Liz went out to work.

‘Where’ve you been, then?’ Jean wanted to know. She was well wrapped up, in a green woolly hat and scarf and navy anorak. ‘Last of my little ’uns has just gone. Mum was late – as usual.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m popping into Esme’s for a cuppa – or something stronger. I need it after the day I’ve had, I tell you.’

When Rosie informed her that they’d called in on the new inhabitants of The Stables, the older woman couldn’t disguise her interest.

‘Well, go on, then.’ She crossed her arms, having forgotten all about the drink.

Rosie told her about Oscar first, then described Luke and the house. ‘It’s a bit dark and gloomy when you go in but the kitchen’s amazing, with this great big island thing in the middle that you can sit round. We had champagne – I had a little bit, too!’

Jean raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you now? Aren’t you the lucky one?’

Hearing voices, her husband, Tom, appeared on the doorstep, but disappeared again sharpish when he saw the three of them. ‘You’ll be rabbiting all night by the looks of it,’ he joked.

Once the door was firmly shut, Jean leaned in towards Liz and Rosie and lowered her voice. ‘I hear they’re not short of a few bob. How did he make his cash, I wonder?’

Liz shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Like as not in finance.’ Jean sniffed. ‘Or maybe he’s from a rich family. That place cost a pretty penny and they must’ve spent thousands doing it up.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked pointedly at Liz. ‘What do you make of the wife, then? Is she our sort?’

Rosie’s body tensed, poised to speak, and Liz nudged her in the ribs.

‘She’s very beautiful,’ she said quickly. ‘Tall and slim, with masses of black curly hair. Mixed race, I think, maybe part African or Caribbean, I’m not sure. She could be a model.’

Jean’s mouth dropped open but she quickly composed herself. ‘Sounds very exotic.’ She was obviously hoping for more information but Liz checked her watch and declared that it was time to go.

‘Robert said he’d pop home for a quick supper before the restaurant gets busy. He likes to eat with us if he can.’ She frowned. ‘No idea what to make, though.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Jean said comfortably. ‘I don’t think it’s your cooking he’s after!’

You might think that October in Tremarnock would be a miserable month, but in some ways Liz loved autumn and winter here more than any other time of year. During the balmy summers tourists flocked into the village, charmed by the quaint, colour-washed cottages and narrow, cobbled streets, the safe little harbour, with its bobbing, brightly coloured boats, and the small, secluded beach.

Then, it seemed, every other house was either offering bed and breakfast or was let out to couples and families, complete with noisy dogs, teens and babies. The village pubs heaved so that you could scarcely reach the bar, and finding a parking space was so tricky that if you were lucky enough to succeed, you might as well hang on to it and walk or catch the bus instead.

Tills rang, businesses boomed and jobs, albeit temporary, were easy to come by, so no one liked to complain. After all, it was the tourists’ money that kept the place alive. Once the holidays were over, however, a sense of calm descended and even the weekenders, with their smart second homes, tended to bolt their doors, lock their shutters and stay away until the weather improved.

Those remaining could have felt lonely, perched as they were on an isolated peninsula, flanked on three sides by water and surrounded by empty houses, but in fact the opposite was true. Life went on and with the place to themselves, locals could once more enjoy solitary walks along the shingly beach and across the dark rocks, pitted with interesting pools, before clambering up the densely vegetated cliff to high ground.

From here, they could revel in spectacular views across the bay, undisturbed by gaggles of mums and dads, dragging reluctant children on family walks, or groups of ramblers. The only noise was the crashing waves down below, tossing and glinting in ragged confusion as they hit the rocks and flew into the air, mingled with the plaintive cries of seagulls.

Back down in the village, it was a relief to be able to find a spot in the pub and chat to the permanent staff, whose feet rarely touched the floor all summer long, and to lean against shop counters and find out how those behind them really
were
. They were more than friends or acquaintances, you see, more than people just providing a service.

The great storm of 2014, when waves whooshed over the roofs of houses, leaving behind great mounds of sand up to the windows, was still fresh in the minds of many, and some were old enough to remember the devastation of ’76. Then, as always, the community had rallied, everyone helping to bale and shovel, everyone mucking in. Miraculously, most folk had been back in their homes and businesses up and running again within days. You didn’t forget things like that in a hurry. It brought you together; it gave you a special bond.

So Liz always viewed October onwards as a time to draw breath, re-engage with people and catch up on some of the jobs that she put off when the sun shone and the outdoors beckoned. The buzz and gaiety of summer were all very well, but the party couldn’t go on for ever.

Mitzi, the tortoiseshell cat, was sitting on the windowsill, waiting for her and Rosie to return, and the girl stopped to give her a stroke. Mitzi wasn’t much more than a kitten, really, with long fluffy fur and black-tipped ears. They’d got her after moving to Bag End and Rosie adored her.

‘Are you hungry?’ she said in a silly, baby voice, picking the creature up. ‘Poor lickle Mitzi.’

Even though they’d been in the house since April, six months now, Liz still had to pinch herself when she walked through the door. She’d grown to love her previous home, the ground-floor flat of a smaller fisherman’s cottage, but looking back it had been rather a squeeze. Now, with Robert, they had three good-sized bedrooms, a proper little garden at the back, a decent kitchen and a small dining room for entertaining. But the real attraction, as far as Liz was concerned, was the original fireplace in the front room that they loved to sit around now that the weather had changed. She said it made the place a real home.

After feeding the cat, Rosie plonked herself on a chair at the old pine kitchen table, scored with marks through years of use, and watched while her mother rootled in the fridge and cupboards to see what she could find.

‘I’m knackered,’ the girl sighed, ‘and I’ve still got some history to finish for tomorrow.’

Liz’s pulse quickened. Her daughter had been doing so well in the year since they’d returned from Oklahoma, where she’d received proton therapy for a brain tumour. All the follow-up scans had been good and there was every reason for optimism but, still, Liz worried frequently; she couldn’t help it.